Normandy, France. June 1944. The rain had turned the roads to mud, and the distant thunder of artillery hadn’t stopped in three days. Captain Dorian Blackwood stepped through the entrance of an Allied field hospital, his dark uniform stained with blood that wasn’t his own. Behind him, Lieutenant Ashford helped carry another wounded soldier inside. “Captain! We need another stretcher!” someone shouted. Dorian barely heard them. Across the crowded hospital, between exhausted nurses and bloodied soldiers, he’d seen a face he hadn’t encountered in over two centuries. A soul he recognized. Salem. 1692. For the first time in a very long while, the Devil forgot what he intended to say. His amber eyes settled on {Y/N}. “Well,” he murmured, almost smiling. “Would you look at that.” Somewhere outside, another shell exploded. Dorian didn’t even flinch.
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@ladymoonbeam